The Moon Rogue

by L M R Clarke

  As Leeve pulled the cart away, Kain stared at Emmy with tearful eyes. Emmy pursed her lips. It was too early to tell, but she suspected Kain would manifest as male when they came of age. That was unfortunate. Gendering was difficult, but at least life gave more possibilities when you became female. Except for Emmy, of course, but she was used to being the exception to every rule.

  The father and youngling’s words carried over the wall as they moved to the next shop.

  “The Moon Rogue shouted at me, Poi,” Kain whined.

  “Yes, she did,” Leeve said. “Stay away from her. She’s poison, Kain. Poison. We won’t accept any more charity from her.”

  Emmy’s back stiffened. Her tail grew rigid. Moon Rogue. That was what they all said.

  “Run away, it’s the Moon Rogue!”

  “Tainted! Tainted!”

  “She’ll never make it to the Light!”

  Emmy stormed into the kitchen and slammed a pot on the table. It was a lie, designed to frighten younglings into doing what they were told. Emmy cast handfuls of grain into the pot and fetched water. As far as she could see, she was no different from anyone else, except for her colors. But her difference painted her as an outsider, something to be tolerated because there was no other apothecary in Bellim, and folk needed their medicine.

  They even held her at arm’s length when they called her to visit the sick. She would tend to the cases of eyepox in younglings, trying her best to preserve their sight, and they would still keep away. They didn’t hesitate to call her when the wasting disease, Breathstealer’s Plague, came upon one of their elderly, or when the Lurking Death brought a whole household to its knees. But equally, they wouldn’t grasp her arm in greeting. They would allow her to cross their threshold, but not as a friend. They would pay her in coin, but never in thanks.

  No. Underneath the knowledge Krodge had given her, Emmy was still a Moon Rogue. She wasn’t welcome in the temple of Nunako. She wasn’t welcome in the Central Circle when pageants were performed, or to watch the bright explosions of fireworks lighting up the night sky.

  Moon Rogues were evil. They were tainted, forgotten by the goddess. That was why Emmy looked so strange, purple and blue like a bruise. If it wasn’t for Krodge, the town would have nailed her to a stake and let the gargons pluck out her eyes. It was also why Krodge had taught her “lessons” every day for so many cycles.

  Emmy slammed down the water jug and snorted.

  Some days, she wished she was a Moon Rogue. If she was, she could punish them all by sucking out their spirits, or whatever it was Moon Rogues were supposed to do. She could have her revenge on Krodge, finally give her what she deserved.

  Emmy mixed the grain and water so hard it slopped over the sides. She stared for a moment, biting her lower lip. She didn’t need to be a Moon Rogue to have her revenge on the crone. She could add a little sicklestem juice to her food, each meal another dose, and finish her off...

  No. Emmy shook her head hard enough to make her thoughts spin. She couldn’t do that. No matter what Krodge said, no matter what any of them said, Emmy was good and kind. She wouldn’t do harm, not even to those who had harmed her.

  She hung the pot over the fire and stoked more life into the flames. Once they roared, she pulled her long fronds until it hurt. The pain in her scalp was easier to bear than the pain in her heart.

  Moon Rogue, Moon Rogue! Go back to your hole and die!

  SEVERAL DAYS PASSED before Bose showed his face again. “Is it true?” he asked. His hands were clasped over his heart as he stared.

  Emmy kept her lips straight as she tipped creyhorn powder into a cloth bag. She was worn out from running to and fro from the shop to her wounded charge, for the injured female still hadn’t woken up. She hadn’t the time, nor the patience, for any of Bose’s silly games.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said.

  Bose huffed. He turned and rolled his eyes at his companions. They did the same, adding unimpressed clucks with their tongues.

  “Is it true,” Bose said, intoning each syllable as if talking to a simpleton, “that you saved someone’s life?”

  Emmy passed him the bag and folded her arms. She needed to have a word with Zecha. Who else had he spun the story to?

  Bose accepted the bag with a simper. Emmy was deadpan. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “By the goddess! It’s been the talk of the town for days!” Bose pulled himself to his full height, which wasn’t particularly impressive—he was at least a head shorter than most other Metakalans—and tried to look down on Emmy. “I hadn’t been able to ask before, for my beloved Mrs. Bose returned to me.”

  Ignoring his preening, Emmy lifted a talon.

  “It’s true,” Emmy said. “Now, please. A half-bickle.”

  Bose threw the coin into Emmy’s hand and sneered. Payment accepted, she gestured to the door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”

  Bose was silent. He flicked his red gaze over her with slow arrogance. “You may have saved a life,” he said, “but you are still a beast.”

  Emmy stiffened. She bit back tears. “Leave.”

  With a victorious grin, Bose retreated in a whirl of skirts and robes.

  The rest of the day passed with little conversation. Emmy couldn’t speak around the lump in her throat.

  After her chores were done and the mistress was sated, she collapsed on her blanket pile. Not her bed. She didn’t even have the luxury of that. It had been given over to the scarred female, who showed no sign of being well enough to get up and finally be out of Emmy’s fronds.

  Staring at the ceiling, Emmy counted the cracks in the roof beams. Why did folk think they could treat her like an animal? It all came back to the same thing: because she was a Moon Rogue. Maybe Zecha was right. Maybe they should leave.

  Her attention was caught by a thin moan. She sat up. The female in the bed stirred. Beyond caring for her wound, Emmy hadn’t given much thought to what would happen when she woke up. Now that life returned to her, reality bit, cold and sharp. What could Emmy tell her?

  She was spared the trouble as the female settled again. Undressing for bed, Emmy peeled off her tunic, leaving just her undershirt next to her skin. She was about to remove her hose when the female stirred again.

  This time she turned, groaned, and opened her eyes. They were deep and dark in the failing light.

  Emmy froze. The female sat up and winced, settling one hand on her chest, over her wound, and the other on her plucked head. She turned. Their eyes met.

  Emmy offered an arm—and everything fell to pieces.

  “Demon!”

  The female sprang from the bed, leaping forward, grasping for Emmy’s throat. She missed. She slammed into the wall, turned, and dove back, striking Emmy’s jaw with an iron fist.

  Pain erupting from the blow, Emmy stumbled, blankets coiled around her ankles. Shaking the blur from her eyes, she ducked as another punch came her way. “Please, calm yourself!” she cried.

  “Moon Rogue! Tainted!”

  White rage scalded Emmy like molten metal. No longer thinking, she struck out, landing a blow on her attacker’s temple.

  It felled her.

  “I am not a Moon Rogue,” Emmy screeched.

  Banging erupted above them. Krodge. Emmy raised a hand to slap her victim, but the wretched creature scrabbled back, cowering.

  “No! Please! Sorry, I am!”

  Sense returning, Emmy dropped her hand. Her indignation was cooled by stark realization.

  “No, I’m sorry,” she spluttered. “I shouldn’t have... Here.”

  She reached to help the female up. Instead of taking the offered arm, the female burst into tears.

  Emmy’s arm hung suspended as shame flowed through her. To make a female cry took something special, a cutting deeper than the knife that had plunged into this female’s chest. The female buried her face in her hands. Emmy’s throat tightened as she tried to think of something—anything—t
o say. Words eluded her.

  “I’m sorry,” Emmy repeated. “I am, really.”

  After several agonizing moments, the female revealed her puffy face. She kept her chin down.

  Emmy held out her hand again. This time, the gesture was accepted. Emmy settled her on the bed and tried to smile. There was another moment of excruciating silence.

  “May I check your wound?” Emmy asked eventually.

  The female blinked, settling a hand on her chest. “O-okay,” she said.

  For the first time, her youth was apparent. Emmy placed her at around fourteen cycles, younger than herself. Emmy knelt before her and pulled down the neck of her tunic. While the gash was red and bulging around the stitches, none had torn. It was a miracle, really. Somehow, the blade had missed anything vital to life.

  “You’ll have a scar,” Emmy said, “but the wound will heal.”

  The female did not respond. She smoothed out her tunic’s neck and sat, stiff-backed.

  Her youth swept Emmy’s ire away. She stood, trying to smile. “Would you like something to eat?”

  She received no reply except a blank stare, but the pools of shadow caught by the female’s jutting bones said enough.

  Fetching bread and weak beer, Emmy returned. The female hadn’t moved, but her eyes brightened at the food and drink, and she drained the beer in one gulp. Emmy poured more. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  The female took another long drink, then shoveled a piece of bread into her mouth. Her first answer was incomprehensible. Swallowing, she tried again. “Charo,” she said. “Charo, my name is.”

  Reaching out, Emmy grasped Charo’s upper arm. “I’m Emmy,” she replied.

  Charo blinked and stared at the outstretched arm, before mirroring the gesture.

  “Not a Moon Rogue?” she asked, prodding Emmy’s skin and armor.

  “No, I’m not,” Emmy said, half-amused and half-exasperated. “I’m just...me.”

  Releasing her grip, Charo plucked up more bread, picking at the crust. “Where I am?”

  “Bellim,” Emmy replied, “in Metakala.”

  Charo’s words were strange, not quite what Emmy was used to. They were similar enough to be understood, though the inflections and word order were odd. Charo sat forward and rubbed her eyes with the heel of one hand.

  “Why here am I?” she asked. “Thought...thought me I was dead.”

  “You almost were,” Emmy replied. “My friend found you in the Wailing Woods and brought you here.”

  Charo’s eyes widened. “A healer, you are?”

  Snorting softly, Emmy shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “I’m just a lowly apothecary’s apprentice.”

  “A healer you should be,” Charo said, her strange words filled with innocent conviction. She sucked the crumbs from her talons. Then she looked at her abdomen again.

  Emmy’s smile faded at the sight of her many scars. “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “Stabbed,” Charo replied. The word was flat. “Fell in the mud, I did. Couldn’t keep going. And...stabbed me, she did.”

  “Who did?” Emmy asked.

  “My owner...” Charo’s breath hitched. “Pulling her cart, I was, but me...tired. Travelled from Haetharro—far north, a country. Walking for weeks, pulling her along in that wheeled thing, I was. Slipped. Couldn’t get up, and... Stabbed me, she did.”

  Charo let the tunic fall and drew her arms tight to her sides, bringing her knees together. Emmy was silent for a moment as she tried to muster words of comfort.

  “You’re fine now,” she said, the words tentative. “And you’re free. If your owner wanted you dead, she’s not coming back.” Emmy’s eyes roved over the patchwork of scars and dents and slashes in Charo’s mossy armor. “You can go home.”

  As soon as the word was out of her mouth, Emmy winced.

  “Home?” Charo spat. “Home I do not have. Torn from home when just a youngling I was. And Haetharro? Never will I back there go.” Her tone was venomous. “Ever.”

  “You don’t have to,” Emmy said, her voice low with capitulation. “You’re free.”

  Charo’s already drawn face tightened. She broke into thick sobs. Emmy clenched her fists. Her guts wrenched. She didn’t know what to do or what to say. Where was Zecha when she needed him? He was better at emotions.

  Charo’s sobs emanated from something that cut deeper than Emmy could stand. The female curled into a ball and rocked back and forth, her tears soaking the too-large hose Emmy had dressed her in.

  Needing to escape, Emmy stood. “I’ll make some tea,” she said.

  She hurried to the kitchen. She cleared the dishes, stoked the fire, and tried desperately to think of a story to spin for Krodge. The crone’s banging had ceased, but that didn’t mean Krodge had forgotten. Emmy sprinkled the tea leaves into the pot and sighed.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Emmy

  Emmy straightened her back and breathed deeply. She balanced the tray of Krodge’s evening victuals on one hand and knocked with the other. And she waited. Unfortunately, waiting gave her time to think.

  In the days following Charo’s consciousness, the two had exchanged few words, except when Zecha appeared. He could get a reply from a tree, Emmy thought. She, on the other claw, had no idea what to say. The more she thought about what happened, the tighter the knot grew in her stomach. Things weren’t normal. Her precious order had been taken away. Life had never been pleasant, but at least it had been predictable.

  Emmy chewed her lower lip. Why was she keeping Charo here? When Krodge found out, Emmy’s life wouldn’t be worth living. The crone would be furious, not just at the idea of a freeloading guest, but because Emmy had been keeping secrets from her. She should have told Krodge. She should have been truthful when the crone asked about the commotion. But in the moment, thinking of the female’s desperation, she had lied. Now, it loomed over her like a knife held above her head by a threadbare string. Emmy needed things to go back to the way they were.

  Eventually she was granted permission to enter.

  Krodge watched as Emmy set the tray on the bedside table. Emmy’s eyes sought the walking stick. She couldn’t see it.

  Waiting to be addressed, she stood with her hands clasped. Krodge faced her and raised a talon, beckoning Emmy closer. Emmy didn’t hesitate, though her heart began to thunder. She approached and knelt as always.

  “Emena,” Krodge said, gesturing to one pointed ear, “is there something I need to hear?”

  Emmy stilled, heart pounding even harder. “Well...” she began.

  Clasping her hands on her rotund belly, Krodge narrowed her eyes. “Yes?”

  Emmy’s mouth worked, but all that came out was a dull croak. Something changed in Krodge, a dark glint to her eyes. She launched her hand out and clamped it around Emmy’s throat, her claws digging into the soft skin. “Why is there a stranger in my house?”

  Waves of breath pulsed against Emmy’s face. She spluttered, trying to pry Krodge’s fingers from her neck. Her eyes bulged, and her vision blurred at the edges.

  “I hear everything!” Krodge bellowed. “I know there is someone here!”

  Emmy’s eyes rolled back. Krodge released her grip, only to bring her walking stick down like steel. Even as her back blazed with pain, Emmy refused to cry out. It would only lead to more pain.

  Staying in her kneeling position, Emmy gasped for breath.

  “I was waiting for you to tell the truth,” Krodge said, “but now I see I shouldn’t have had faith in you. What is going on?”

  “Yes,” Emmy cried, “there is someone else here! She was brought to me by some of the townsfolk. She was nearly dead. I did everything you taught me to try to save her.” Her words stumbled over each other. She looked up, hoping they placated Krodge even a little. “Everyone in town knows about it. They know I was only able to save her because of how well you taught me.”

  Sitting upright in the bed, which creaked under her considerable weight, Kro
dge raised an eyeridge. “Get up.”

  Emmy did as she was told and resisted the urge to lean against the wall, though her knees were weak.

  “How is this female now?” Krodge asked. “Will she live?”

  “Yes, Madame,” Emmy replied. “She’s getting stronger every day.”

  Krodge tapped one thick talon on her chin and nodded. “I see. And folk are interested in her, are they?”

  Emmy nodded. “Yes, Madame. Everyone who comes in asks about her.”

  “Good,” Krodge said, settling back against her pillows. “In that case, once she’s able, you will put her to work. She was saved by my knowledge and is being fed by my profits. I think she owes me a little servitude.” At Emmy’s look of disdain, Krodge waved a hand. “I have no interest in keeping her as a slave,” she said. “But there’s an Althemerian custom I’m quite fond of. It’s about owing a debt to those who have helped you. This female, she’s to work in the shop for no pay for three weeks. After that, if she satisfies me, you can pay her a pittance. A half-bickle a day should suffice. Or she can get out. I don’t care. But make sure she knows that for the next three weeks, she doesn’t have a choice.”

  Emmy nodded, saying nothing in the hope that Krodge would dismiss her.

  “Get out,” Krodge said, waving her hand again. “Go and relay my instructions.”

  Relief coursing through her, Emmy retreated, the burn at her neck abating. Straight away, she found Charo at the kitchen table.

  “You’re to work for my mistress for three weeks,” she added as Charo’s eyes widened. “She says you owe her a debt.”

  Charo remained silent for a moment. Then she stood. “All right,” she said, inclining her head. “I will.”

  Eyes bulging, Emmy’s mouth gaped.

  “You’ve just been freed from servitude. Why don’t you leave? You don’t have to do what she says. You could go now, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—stop you.”